Art of War
by karrenia
Summary: Featuring the first meeting between Methos Highlander and Ares, the God of War Hercules:TLJ
1. Default Chapter

****

Art of War" by Karen

Disclaimer: Hercules: the Legendary Journeys and all related characters are the property of MGM Studios, Renaissance Pictures and Paramount. As always no money is made off of this piece. They are only borrowed for entertainment purposes and for the story. G. 

2nd Disclaimer: Highlander: the Series and all related concepts, events, characters are the property of Rysher Television, Panzer/Davis Productions, and their respective creators, and they do not belong to me. You know the drill. Note: In series continuity, I'm not actually certain what is considered cannon from the time that Methos took Cassandra prisoner and made her his slave. She was a pre-immortal at the time, and he caused her to 'die' over and over again. If I diverge somewhat from continuity, please bear with me. g

Note: Written in response, if rather extremely belated, to a story challenge posted by Cindy J, on the story challenge message board of the Seventh Dimension Highlander Fanfiction Archive back in 12/98. Yes, I know, ancient history, but better late than never.sigh, featuring the first meeting between the God of War, Ares, and Methos, or Death on a Horse set during the Bronze Age.

Prologue

The Osprey cut through the waters of the Aegean strait as if it had been born made to sail the oceans. It was an excellent craft, its wood beams freshly caulked, its iron fittings newly oiled to within an inch of their lives. Sailors climbed the ropes and stays, singing a wordless but heartening tune serving as counterpoint to their activity.

The helmsman gauged the turning of the wheel in his hands, his skin bronzed and as leathered as his tunic, from long exposure to the sun. The merchant ship boasted an innovative desiggn of placing rowers on two different levels, one above the other, doubling their number, guided by two steering oars thrusting out from the stern. A cabin boy of maybe ten or twelve years of age ascended the rope ladder to the crow's nest, where a bell-shaped basket afford a good view in all directions, and from which an archer or a slinger might cry out warnings or launch arrows at an enemy.

Elsewhere, trying to stay out of the way of this boiling activity, which grated on his admittedly raw nerves, a man with dark hair worn long at the sides, so that it just brushed his shoulders, leaned over the railing, being quietly and unobtrusively ill. Feeling his guts roil inside of him, the dark haired man wondered why he should suffer from nausea,. The thing that most angered him was the absolute refusal of his 'healing ability had not dealt with being sea-sick. 

He had boarded the Phoenician trading vessel, Osprey, several weeks ago, after traveling over land across the steppes of Outer Mongolia, nearly driving his mount mad with exhaustion, not to mention himself. As used as he was to the harsh climate and changeable seasons out on the plains, it had still taken much longer than he had anticipated to cross it and then attach him to a caravan of merchants headed south along the ancient trade road. 

In the back of his mind, he thought back to one of the longest days of his long life. He chuckled, and smiled a thin-lipped smile. "Being Immortal certainly has its advantages." Methos smirked, and then heaved his guts over the railing. "Just wished it work a little faster on curing me of the cursed sea-sickness."

Just then a loud roaring rushed across the deck and blocked out all other sounds, Methos stood in the center of whirlwind maintaining his balance on the wooden deck and ignored the strange up and down shifts his stomach was performing. He was hurled across the deck to end slammed up against the bulkhead of the galley. The last thing he wanted to think about right now was food, but despite his best efforts, the smell of pea soup, overcooked at that came to him, and he hurled his lunch to the ground. Recovering, he glanced around, sweat dripping from his forward, and shouted: "Just what the hell is going on?"

"Move aside, Sir," a crewman said in a subdued voice. "You are in the way."

Methos curled his lip into a sneer, grasping the man by his soiled shirt collar and lifted him off the deck. The man's brown face paled and he began gurgling.

"We've come under attack by reavers!" a sailor yelled, his words mangled by bad teeth and heavy accent, but Methos understand them well enough, having picked up a little Latin and Greek by conversing with the caravan traders on the way to Athens.

"Reavers? Oh, you mean pirates. Can we out run them?" Methos asked dropping the half-strangled sailor to the deck.

"Only if ye wanna be swimming with the sharks," he answered.

Methos glared at the sailor and then looked in the direction where most of the activity had been concentrated. He could just barely make out the shapes of triangle-shaped sails on the horizon. The ships, nearly two dozen square-masted sloops approached their position; drawing nearer, they began launching boulders and firing arrows at those who fought to both defend the Osprey and bring into a safe harbor.

Scene 2:

He heard a creaking sound, and not that of the sailors manning the wooden sweeps that lined each side of the ship, Methos looked around at the faces of the sailors and wondered what was happening. It was not often that he witnessed men with very dark skin go white as ghosts.

"We're breaking up!" the captain shouted in a hoarse voice at the same instant as an incredibly loud whistling echoed around the ship, followed up by a large boulder that slammed into the ship's hull and caved it in. Moments later, the crews of the other ships launched more boulders from the catapults rigged up on their foredecks.

A shudder ran throughout the ship, tearing the rigging and breaking the single mast. The ship lurched and Methos was sent careening across the deck to come to a halt against a bulkhead and momentarily blacked out. When he came to, he could see crewmen scrambling everywhere, much like ants streaming from their nest when disturbed by a booted man kicking it. A handful of sailors, quickly if somewhat roughly, escorted the merchant ship's passengers towards the stern where small boats had been attached, loaded up the passengers, and lowered the boats with the passengers into the water, but they were too late.

Later:

The ship nearly ran ashore on the coast of Greece, either the mainland or one of the islands. The crew staggered out of the water, bruised and battered, and were confronted by a troop of armed men. In their hands they carried a mixed assortment of weaponry. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as both sides stared at each other.

Methos wiped the hair out of his eyes, taking his attention off the tableau just long enough to assure himself that his sword was still strapped to his back in the sheath he wore underneath his coat. He thought about his brothers in the Four Horsemen: Kronos, Silas, and Caspian, and with only a small twinge of regret that they no longer rode together. No one else could understand as well or would be able to see inside his very soul: If 'hellions' such as they could be said to possess such a thing. He took a moment to be certain no one was paying him any attention, to check if his sword was still securely bound in its sheath which was strapped to his back. It was, and he turned around to find the sailors hopelessly out-matched and they knew it. After putting up a rather lack-luster resistance, they were quickly captured and divested of their weapons. Methos, seeing the way wind was blowing and figuring he would have better luck striking out on his own, began running in the direction of the distant village, when he felt a blow with a blunt instrument hit the back of his head, and he succumbed to blackness.

****

When he came to, Methos was forced to his knees in the wet sand by the gauntlet of the lead slaver, he felt mingled fury and frustration as the leader ordered with a curt gesture of his hand an iron collar clamped and soldered around his neck. He glared up at his captor and in cold and measure voice he said: "You wouldn't dare to do that if I were free."

"Oh, wouldn't I?" the other replied. "Take the slaves away, and prepare for the march to the mines." he ordered. His yellow hair hanging lank and dripping wet. He wore a tricorn helmet, chain mail, and a dagger at his belt. He ordered the troop into marching orders. The other sailors and now captives were also chained with iron collars around their necks, and then roped together at their ankles, and marched away in a staggering line to the east.

2 weeks later:

"Who the hell are you?" Methos demanded. He felt the 'buzz' that signaled the presence of another Immortal; he scratched the short hairs at the nape of his neck and kicked himself for not having noticed it earlier. It irritated him no end, but until only a few years ago, he thought he and his brothers in the Four Horsemen were the only Immortals around. "Well, it's rare when it happens, but I could be mistaken about that. I've been around Kronos and that other pair of miscreants, Silas and Caspian, too long." Methos scratched the left side of his face where the stubble of several unshaven days rubbed against the fabric of his hood.

"Depends who you ask. We've been watching you, for some time now, and I would suspect you're one of those new ones who always think escape at the first, last, and only possibility." Ares said, folding his arms across his armored chest. "Methos, is it not?"

"We?" Methos mocked, not even bothering to ask how the other knew his name.

"I mean, I have been watching you. 'We' is just a figure of speech. And to answer your first question, I am Ares." 

Methos gave an apathetic shrug, trying for bland indifference, hoping that the stranger would give up in frustration, if nothing else. "The first duty of any prisoner is to escape," Methos said giving the other a quick glance that took in everything, from the dark eyes and hair, cut short almost to the ears, to the boiled leather armor and the sword hanging at his hip. He wore black leather that was almost the same shade of black as his hair. He had pale skin, a long narrow slit of a mouth, and a thin nose.

"Indeed," Ares nodded. "And how to you plan on doing this? Slaves here usually do not live very long. Often they are condemned to death for committing crimes."

"At this point, I really do not care," Methos remarked, turning his attention back to the pickaxe in his hand, and proceeded to pound on the rock wall. Concentrating his undivided attention to coaxing out more copper ore. Methos ignored the presence of the other man, at the same time taking note of everything present in the prison yard: The compound was large, easily 100 yards in circumference and closed in on all four sides by thick walls of well-constructed mud bricks. Other slaves performed their assigned tasks, with the overseers standing in the shade of the walls. The guards were perched at each of the four gates, and another pair perched on the top of a viewing platform, a rickety structure made of straw and wood. They were armed with crossbows and a plentiful supply of arrows. He had taken due notice of these security measures. While his captors dragged Methos into the compound, bleeding from a split lip, Methos realize that he had sustained no lasting damage. with a battle-axe, certainly not enough to cause any real damage. But previous experience indicated that it was a better strategy to allow his captors to think the damage was more than it actually appeared. He closed his eyes and could feel the swaying of the horses, the clanging of the spoked wheels of the supply carts and the voices of the soldiers dragging the chained prisoners away from the port city and towards the copper mine. Escape was not going to be easy, but not impossible.

"I offer you power, command over my entire army, and your freedom from this mean place," Ares smiled, "All you have to do is swear allegiance to me." Ares looked Methos over, taking special note of the deep brown eyes. Wariness seemed ingrained in him like the dirt under his fingernails. He was good to look at, but he wore masks, like the actors in the theaters. He armored himself in layer after layer until the real man was hidden beyond threat of discovery. Ares took a closer look, and was taken aback by the feeling that here was a challenge, and that was as close to the truth of the man as few would ever get.

Methos briefly speculated on what Kronos would have done in his position.

"Well," Ares prompted. "Have you had time to think over my generous offer?"

"Yes, I will swear allegiance to you. But let's make one thing crystal clear, just to avoid any confusion later," Methos said, "What's in it for you?"

"Direct. I like that," Ares replied. "I admire that quality, even if you are verging on the arrogant and insolent side."

"Let's say I agree to do this," Methos hedged.

"I am the God of War!" Ares suddenly shouted, "I will not be bargained with like a haggler in the market. Do or do not!"

Methos nodded, slightly alarmed, wondering what he was getting himself into, but it was too good an opportunity to pass up. "I will swear allegiance to you. What do you want me to do?"

"It is very simple." Ares smiled. "You lead my armies to victory over any and all enemies, and you will have power and rewards beyond your wildest dreams. Take this."

Methos stretched out his hand and wrapped his fist around a bronze pin, turning it over and over in his hand, examining the wingspan of the carved bronze eagle.

"Present this token to the present commander of my armies, he'll know what to do." Ares said, while Methos tuned out and thought back to the last time that he had seen a sign similar to this one. He had believed this to be a long buried memory, because it was something of a failure on his part. 

Flashback:

Kronos galloped up to his side, sawing at his mount's reins, and leaned over to where he could whisper into his ear without Silas and Caspian over-hearing. He had a soft, hoarse voice and Methos idly wondered for a second if he used that same tone of voice in the bedchamber. Dismissing the thought as he would swat a fly or cut an arm from an enemy, Methos turned his attention back to what the other was saying.

"I hear tell that a certain petty king is offering a reward to anyone brave or foolish enough to take any one of us, or even the whole lot, into custody. He has even put up a reward." Kronos said.

"A reward. And how much is the price on our heads this time?" Methos asked.

"300 florins a head," Kronos replied, and went back to his position in the line.

"Wanted dead or alive, is it? Given his position, this petty king would no doubt prefer us dead? That's more money than we've seen in months." 

They rode into the unsuspecting and unprotected village in the valley. It was made up of several tents and a cattle pen that had been enclosed on all four sides by a wooden fence to prevent them from straying or becoming easy pickings for predators. In the back of Methos' mind, he thought it a wise precaution, but not from two-legged predators mounted on horses. "This raid would be too easy." he muttered to himself under his breath. He placed the mask painted black and white, painted a bone-white to portray his role in the Four Horsemen as Death on a Horse. Methos awaited, betraying not a sign of impatience, knowing that Kronos would take the lead; when and where to give the signal to sweep into the small village and cut down anything that moved or even so much as resisted. Methos could see that both Silas and Caspian were spoiling for a good raid and other things as well. There was the signal, Kronos raising his arm, his fist clenched, then jerking it down in one quick movement. They kicked their mount's flanks and spurred them forward, swords at the ready.

**

Methos dismounted and swept into the last standing tent. Inside he found a woman holding a sword in trembling hands, seemingly without the strength to lift it, much less fight, but determined to defend her home. He inspected her, tall, dark with pale skin and brown eyes. Her hair was dark brown shading over into black and hung in a ragged curtain down her back. He felt a confusing mix of emotions, contempt for her puny attempt at defense; desire to possess her and make her his slave; and even a trace of what he thought he could use her for, something other than what she half-expected him to do. Methos moved forward, knocked the weapon from her hand, and slung her over his back.

***

When Methos came out of the tent with the woman slung over his back, her hair blowing in the wind, Kronos approached him. "Find a new playmate or a new slave?" Kronos inspected the woman, noting with interest the fine bronze brooch that held her cloak closed, adorned with a golden eagle with its wings outstretched. "Do you mind sharing, Brother?"

He noted that while he had been occupied in the tent, his `brothers' had slaughtered all the other villagers and set fire to their tents, cattle, and stored goods. Methos thought it over for a moment, seating the woman on his horse. 

"Very well," Kronos said, and walked over to talk with Silas and Caspian.

*end flashback*

A week later:

Methos exchanged glances with the assembled military advisors that would now be expected to command, well aware of the unsettled grumbling from the previous general, Ortho. Just as Ares had promised, the bronze pendant was enough to win them over. His army sprawled across the river valley, and it appeared that the Scythian general would comply with orderly dawn starting times for battles, after all. A fortunate turn of events given that there was nothing a Scythian liked better than surprise attacks and night-time raids.

"The wolves will howl, and there will be a raven's feast," Methos whispered, pulling his visor over his face and spurring his bay stallion into the melee.

"We will make sure the Scythians provide a better meal for them, than we do," Ortho replied, riding up next to him.

The war-chariots of the Scythians pulled up in front of his battle-lines, in rough v-shape. They were light vehicles drawn by two or three horses. The car was little more than a platform floor with a waist-high semi-circular guard in the front. Only chiefs were allowed to ride in the war-chariots pulled by a matched set of roan horses. The distinctive ring of metal on metal as weapons were drawn, spears smacking onto the ground, echoed in the chill dawn air. 

The sky lightened, and lancing rays of sunlight pierced through the clouds. Methos raised himself up in his saddle with his left fist clenched: That was the signal. Both armies rushed forward and weapons met each other with a shuddering jolt of steel on steel. After that, the river valley echoed with shouts, screams, and thuds. The battle swirled around them. Hoof beats pounded across the ground, boots slogged in mud and bloodied dirt, somewhere in the melee he lost track of Ortho, but it did not matter He could faintly hear the scrape of steel and the hiss of arrows that criss-crossed in the air before finding their targets. Methos remotely heard the screams of a thousand horses and their riders, men shouting curses, begging for mercy, but it had already been determined to give no quarter.

**

The battle quickly disintegrated into a raging sea of men and horses, Methos pulled his stirrups higher to survey the immediate area, but men in armor and helms look very much alike. He gave up, cursing the helmet that blocked his peripheral vision; swearing, he yanked it off and stuffed into his saddlebag. At that moment, a hairy Scythian armed with a speak thrust at his stallion's unprotected legs.

A glancing blow to his left check, with the blue tattoo, sent Methos reeling on his horse, and he nearly fell off. He grasped at the reins and regained his balance. He drew his sword, the one that he had carried for years was now buried somewhere in the copper mines, but this would suit him just fine. "Rather inglorious way to go," he muttered, "staring up a small, hairy brute with the ground and the sky switching places on me."

The Scythian, even without the benefit of words could understand when he had the business end of a spear level with his opponent's beating heart, and in his native language, "Now, little man, you die." he said, stabbing downward with the spear, and was about to deliver the killing blow and in the next instant Methos was the track of the enemy's weapon as it crashed to the ground followed by it's owner heavy corpse in the next few heartbeats. The enemy's eyes rolled back in his head with shock, a sword blade stabbed into his back with enough force to come out on the other side. He fell on top of Methos and both horse and man went tumbling onto the ground in tangle of arms and legs. When they came to a halt, Methos was sore, bloody, and feeling several bruised, if not broken, ribs. Rolling to the side, he stood up and tried to ignore the pain.

Ortho appeared on his blind side, and Methos blinked in the bright sunlight, wondering what happened to his sword. The other rider dismounted and removed his helmet. It was Ortho, he grinned, "Mount up. It will never do to have our general accept the enemy's surrender on his own two feet."

"We won?" Methos asked, gingerly accepting the hand up and mounting behind the other man.

"When all else fails, overwhelm them with superior numbers, and pound them into submission," Ortho grinned. "Yeah, we won. Come on."

Conclusion:

Methos knelt on the churned up ground, his new sword's hilt planted in the mud. One hand wrapped around the now-familiar two-handed grip, the other held his chin. He glanced around at the field where only hours before men had contested over something that was now a moot point. The wind blew his lank dark hair over his eyes. War was Chaos, and death, but, by an odd contrast, while he was hammering at the enemy, pounding at his armor, striking and parrying sword blows, and dodging armor, slipping and sliding in the mud, he felt supremely alive. Not that he was looking forward to going through it all again right this instant. He did not like Ares, but war, as Kronos was wont to say, made strange bedfellows. He had to admit that Ares offer was compelling. And he still knew he had an ace up his sleeve, Ares just thought he was the by-blow between some Minor Greek deity and a mortal, Methos coughed and spit out a bloody tooth. He wiped his mouth, and tossed his head back, thinking in the back of his mind, that it would be a fine joke if Ares knew the real truth, that he was an Immortal. He would agree to play along with Ares, command his armies, for a time, but he would damned if he would be anyone's slave, even a so-called `God of War,' he thought. "Let Ares believe what he wants, but I've been "Death on Horse,' and I still am. I live and die by my own rules." 

Thanks, Karrenia aka Karen

Chapter 2 : "Vicious Circles"

Chapter 3 " Endless Waltz"


	2. Vicious Circles

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Disclaimer: Hercules: the Legendary Journeys and all related characters, events, and concepts are the property of Renaissance Pictures, MCA Studios, and their related creators and producers. They do not belong to me, and not a dime is made off of this. . Ditto for Highlander: the Series, which is the property of Rysher Television, Panzer/Davis Productions.

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Note: Picks some time after where "_Art of War_" left off.

References to events and characters from Greek Mythology, esp. from Homer's Iliad.

Any errors in interpretation are strictly my own, it's been a while since I've read the epic.

"**Vicious Circles" by Karen**

__

Prelude 

There was something both decadent and deeply satisfying about lounging around in one's private bathing chamber Methos reflected. He dipped his left hand into the steaming water, observing the disruption which sent small circles rippling across its surface. Steam rose in small tendrils making the walls damp and the floor slippery. Whatever could be said of this Spartan king, he certainly knew how to make guests feel comfortable. Methos wondered if the king had known about the naturally-occurring hot springs when they built the palace or if it had been a recent addition. In any case, bless the architect who built it.

Methos closed his eyes and wondered why it was so hard to allow himself to let go of the frenetic always protective shield that he wove around himself. Perhaps he should resign him self to the fact that that peace of both mind and body would be forever denied to him. It simply required too much mental energy, energy that he didn't have at the moment. The battle with the Scythians that had just come to its inevitable conclusion a fortnight ago was foremost in his thoughts.

Bathing the grime and pain of battle from his body, Methos had leisure to recall details of the past battle and how his newfound companion, Ortho, for all his gruff appearance and coarse manners, he did have his usefulness. Ortho knew how to conduct a military campaign. Ortho, swore to keep secret the fact of Methos' immortality, and he had connections with the upper crust of Greek society. Now they had been invited to the wedding of Prince Meneleaus of Athens and Helen of Sparta.

Methos wriggled his toes and wondered if the water would cause his skin to wrinkle like a prune. He thought about pulling the bell cord for one of the servants to bring him a towel and conduct him to his chambers so he could dress for the banquet when Ortho appeared framed in the open doorway. 

"You've been in that spring long enough that if the Master Cook were to walk in on you right now he might mistake you for tonight's lobster," Ortho remarked, a towel slung over one arm.

"I don't care, just hand me the towel and find out what they've provided in the way of formal clothes," Methos grunted, levering himself out of the water and gliding forward on the balls of his feet.

"I don't much care for the design of this place," Ortho muttered, handing over the towel and then turned to face the various arched entryways and marble columns, all designed with fanciful carvings and shells. "Whoever built must have been either drunk or insane, or both."

Methos, now towel wrapped, "I can't say it's that bad. I imagine it was designed more for function than to appease some sense of beauty. All these interconnecting passages, narrow windows for archers…lots of hiding places…."

"You've lost me, boss," Ortho, "I am just a soldier. I'll leave the intricate plans to you."

Methos, occupied in drying his shoulder-length black hair, narrowed his eyes at dark, squat, hairy soldier and considered that the man was either being modest or he was being playing the fool for his amusement. Methos distinctly recalled that in the battle with the Scythians only a fortnight ago it had been Ortho who had come up with the flanking strategy that had won their side the victory. While the man had all the subtlety of blacksmith's anvil when it come to political maneuvering. Ortho he had other qualities that made up for that. "How did you manage to get us invited?" 

"Every wealthy city-state in Greece are looking for good soldiers to command their armies, Nestor being no exception and the fact this his sister-son's cousin…." Ortho replied.

"Do I need to know the family tree?" Methos snapped.

"No, no." Ortho stammered, "It's complicated, but I've got to have money to pay for all this high-faultin' living expenses, pay the troops…."Ortho threw up his hands. "It helps to have connections," he finished wearily.

"I see," Methos replied.

**

Outside the palace walls the city of Sparta slept through the mid day heat in a torpid ease. If some were troubled by unsettling dreams and explicable messages from above, it passed unnoticed except by those few. The streets were deserted and the celebratory offerings of fruits and floors left in the temples of the gods of Olympus wilted in the heat, left by commoner and highborn alike. It was far different inside the walls of the palace, however. Music from pipes, drums, and flutes echoed through the interconnecting doorways and corridors. 

Servants got in each other's way, as they crossed and recrossed the tiled floor of the banquet hall, cursing each other and the inordinate amount of food and drink that King Nestor had ordered for the occasion. The lobster that Ortho had commented that Methos time in the hot springs made him resemble was not just one of the shelled crustaceans but two dozen, boiled, baked and stuffed with cabbage, onions and all topped with saffron. The gold platter that it was carried in on threatened to overbalance the half dozen sweating servants that brought it in and laid it on the silk- draped banquet table.

***

Methos stood at the top of the marble staircase with Ortho at his back as was proper for a second-in-command, waiting for the court herald to announce their arrival, Methos who was always noting details of his surroundings, ascertained the available exits and entrances, the various court dignitaries already in attendances; the smoky torches illuminating the banquet chamber and allowed a small grin, noting the elaborate hairstyles ordained by royal decree of Her Royal Highness, Clymenestra. How any woman, no matter their station in life, either by circumstances of birth or by reason of economics could push and pull, and otherwise coax their hair into an carefully sculpted beehive, was something he would never understand, even if he lived to be hundreds of years old. Methos took his attention off the courtiers for a moment to regard his clothing, fine Egyptian imported linen covering him from head to toe in folds and banded at the bottom hem with a crimson dye. 

****

**

Methos and Ortho had been placed at opposites ends of the high table whether by accident or design, but in any case, Methos figured he was on his own. His table-mate to his left was a man who had the look of a soldier, a veteran at that judging by the fine dusting of white scars criss-crossing his tanned skin. He had been introduced by Achilles, whom, for his part, seemed to take offense that Methos was not taking an interest in listening to his war-stories, which Achilles illustrated his thrusts and jabs with the gnawed bone of a roasted boar. Methos deflected his questions about his own battles with non-committal replies and the man eventually began ignoring him, which suited Methos just fine. His table-mate to his immediate right was a woman, with hair the color of honey and piercing blue eyes. He did not how she managed it, but she had arranged the folds of the gown so that most of her snowy-white bosom was revealed to advantage. "Deceptively distracting," Methos thought in the back of his mind, 'and she knows it.' 

"Methos, " she purred. "What an exotic name. That doesn't sound Greek and your looks, a foreigner, I'll wager. Might I inquire where you were born?" Oh, it's no shame to come from other lands. Half the population of Knossos are from other parts of the empire."

"Out east from the Greater Steppes, your Highness. Methos rolled the taste of the fine white wine around on his tongue. "It's not where I was born, just the place I was a long time." The nobility of the realm certainly enjoyed loud table talk, mostly of politics, territorial disputes that supposedly would be solved by this marriage between the two city-states. Methos supposed that he could learn something by absorbing what he could. As his old comrade-in-arms and former Horsemen, Kronos, had once said, 'Fighting the god-damned war is the easy part, but try occupying a conquered people, now that's the hard part." Methos tossed his head back and laughed. He missed Kronos, and the rest of his brother Horsemen, Silas and Caspian,. Methos had serious doubts that he would ever find they're like again. Then a troubling thought occurred to him, 'would he want to bring back the Four Horsemen? Would he want to become Death on a Horse? How far had he come in a few short season from what he had once been? Was he the same person. The thoughts flashed through Methos' mind, and came up with the answer, NO." Methos shook his head and sighed.

"Does your name have any significance among those tribes?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"You are very young to have attained the rank of commander of your own army," Achilles interrupted.

"Correct me if I'm mistaken, but so was one of your greatest military generals, Alexander,"

"You, Sir, are hardly Alexander, the man called Ajax interrupted, seated beside Ortho. "With one hand tied behind my back I could easily snap you in two." Ajax laughed, hearty and from the belly, flexing his massive arms

Methos smiled, a narrow thinning of his lips, so tight it resembled the rictus smile of a corpse and drank more wine. "With no proof, I'll take your word for it, otherwise I would not wish to wager on it."

"Good head on that one's shoulders," Menleaus whispered to Ortho.

"You have no idea," Ortho muttered under his breath.

Ajax spluttered, unable to form words for a second, and the wine spilled onto his shirt. "Well, well, the puppy has teeth. Good show, man. I shall be eager to fight beside you."

"Indeed," Clymenestra murmured, poking the prongs of her fork into the linen tablecloth leaving five, evenly spaced puncture marks in the fabric. "More wine?"

"Yes."

"Dearest, "Agamemnon interrupted, "You mustn't monopolize our guests."

"My husband is correct. " Clymenstra blushed, "I do forget myself at times. She rose to her feet, "If you'll excuse me, I have duties to which I must attend, and Princess Helen, poor dear, has a wedding to prepare for."

"I had all but forgotten," Menelaus blushed, covering it with a napkin.

"That is the spirit, man," Ajax grinned. "A woman is a woman, and they are as plentiful as. I can't think of an appropriate contrast at the moment, my head is too muddled with this fine wine. Hoi! Servant, refill my cup, lazy bones!"

'You should talk, Ajax," Agamemnon replied, 'you with your string of court girls and bull dancers, it's no wonder none of their fathers have approached you yet with offers of marriages or alliances."

"And I should be so obligated to select a wife?" Ajax asked.

"No, but it is a pleasant diversion," Ortho ventured to offer.

"Are you married?" Meneleaus asked

"Once," Ortho shrugged. "She died in a raid by the Scythians.

"I had no idea," Methos said.

"I never told you," Ortho said, and resumed eating without contributing anything more to the conversation.

****

**** 

__

Meanwhile,

A shepherd, tending his flock, took a moment in the sweltering heat of summer, to lie down in the shade of an olive grove. His charges did not need to be watched all the time and he trusted that they knew their master well enough that they would not be inclined to stray out of the protective ranged of his sight or at least a shouted command. His blond hair hung lake over a handsome face with wide blue eyes and a curving mouth. He lay directly beneath the boughs of the tree, his head pillowed on wool and fur lined cloak. His hands were engaged in coaxing noises that he regarded as music from a eight-holed flute, his friends often jokingly referred to as sounding more like 'a randy goat on the make.' Paris did not mind, his father was shepherd, his grandfather was a shepherd before him and had died a shepherd, and most likely so would he. It was a decent if hard live out among the foothills of Sparta and in the spring they would all move onto the plains where the land offered more grazing and level land for planting crops. Paris was content with his life for he knew nothing better. Little did he know that the peaceful life he knew was about to change forever.

**__**

**

The first rumbling sounds of an approaching storm rumbled over the hills and rolled down to the small cottage surrounded by a fenced in yard where Paris had just tied the last of his sheep. He looked up, startled, white, hot sparks danced across his vision and he lost his balance and fell to the ground to land on his rump. Hoping no one witnessed his embarrassing fall, he glanced up at the sky and felt the first drops of rain on his outstretched hand. 

At that very instant another hand, this one soft, white, delicate bonded, and decorated with rings ; helped him stand up again. 

Paris was frozen, he didn't how to react, or what to say.

When he senses were once more in working order, Paris came face to face with the owner of that hand. A woman with auburn hair tied in a loose braid, and dressed in a flowing gauzy white gown, sandals the color of pink coral that bordered the city's harbor, on her feet. Paris was not the most observant of men, but this was no ordinary woman, this was a goddess.

**__**

"Come now," she purred. "Don't be all day about it." You are Paris?

"I, Uh, Yes, I answer to that name." he managed to stammer. "Are you. Am I really…." Paris trailed off and resumed starting at the ground.

"The goddess of Love? Charming. Yes, I am." 

"We are wasting time," Aphrodite's companion interrupted. "The lives of mortals are finite, but even to such as ourselves, time is commodity that we cannot afford to waste."

"You always were such a downer, Athena," Aphrodite. "We agreed that I would be one to approach this mortal."

"Excellent," the other woman added. "Men's senses are so easily dazzled."

"We are having a little wager, and being so evenly matched we cannot decide for ourselves," Artemis said. "Whom among us is the most beautiful."

"Begging your pardon, ladies," Paris muttered, "What has that to do with me?"

"Much and nothing," Aphrodite laughed. "You see you are but one player in the game."

"Oh, stop torturing the poor lad," Artemis snapped. "Tell him."

"I would rather not. I would be a poor judge," Paris muttered, trying to avoid staring into the eyes of the trio of goddesses and drill a hole for himself where he could bury his burning shame at being forced into this position.

Aphrodite glided towards him and wrapped her fingers around his chin, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "I'm afraid, oh lost little lamb, that you have no choice."

__

"I do not understand," Paris whispered.

"It is very simple," Artemis replied. "You see before you three goddesses, we are deadlocked in this contest, and for simplicity's sake, we have decided to allow a mortal man to select the winner. The reward is this. " She snapped her fingers and clasped between her gloved hands was a round, shimmering object no bigger than 

"Use it and you can have your pick of any woman in the world, even the most beautiful, and your destiny will be made."

"My destiny?"

__

"You will not spending the rest of your mortal life as a tender of ship," Artemis replied. "Instead, your true parents were royalty of the city of Troy. It was foretold that you would be either the savior or destroyer of your city. The prophecy was never clear on that matter, was it, Athena?"

"I cannot remember," Athena replied, shaking her head.

"Either way, the choice is yours," Artemis said.

Paris, at that instant wanted very badly to have some other destiny than tending the sheep for the rest of his life, a wayward part of his mind, found himself silent shouting to run away as fast as his feet would carry him; he could never hope to outrun anyone, much less the swift Goddess of the Hunt, Artemis, let alone her immortal sisters. Paris thought about deals with the gods of Mt. Olympus, thought about this stranger prophecy that he was the subject off, it was too remote , too out of the ordinary, and suddenly he wanted this strange destiny, wanted so badly he could taste it, and stretched out his hand for the golden apple. 

**__**

"Your decision," Artemis demanded, arms folding over his chest.

"I have chosen, Aphrodite."

"Wrong or right, the choice has been made," Artemis sighed, and placed the golden apple into the palm of his hand. It was surprisingly light and airy, as if it was hollow on the inside. Paris turned it over and over in his palm and wondered how much gold went into its making, when the thundering sound returned and he was tossed back by an invisible force into his home.

**__**

**

Scene 4

In the royal herb garden

Helen tugged at the intricate and delicate silk laces that bound the layers of filmy fabric to her body and wondered if the royal seamstresses had been ordered to make a dress so confining that whoever wore could not even breath. She considered yelling at them but what good would that do,' she thought, In the back of her mind she knew that it was her own fault in not have spoken up when the wedding dress was being made and have ordered it then to be sewn exactly to her specifications; she had been distracted by more important matters like enjoying her own pursuits. Needlework was boring and wearing on her delicately boned fingers and made her fingers red and swollen, not at all attractive. Oh, there were other garments in her wardrobe suitable for more active pursuits, such as climbing the trellis east wall and climbing down to the gardens and hoping that a handsome prince or lesser nobility would happen by and chance to see her admiring her reflection in the garden reflecting pool. Her golden hair hanging loose over face, as was maidenly proper. It was part of the game played by young people, but it was nothing more than a game. It was never intended to be taken seriously, a flirtatious glance, perhaps a light peck of the cheek or a more daring kiss, but never promised anything beyond that, for if it did, her watchful governess would swoop in and forcibly have the daring young man removed.

Helen thought with some regret, now the game was coming to an end, her sister, Clymenstra, had patiently and kindly explained that as a royal princess she had obligations that befitted her station, that princesses married for love, marriages are arranged for political reasons and she could thank the Gods that she had been fortunate in the man she had married. She had grown to love King Agamemnon. "A hard man, but a good one,." Clymenstra had observed. Helen bit her lip, afraid that Prince Meneleaus would turn out far differently. :The apple has fallen farther from the tree." she muttered under her breath, noting with some annoyance that her mood was creating tiny creases in her smooth forehead. "I shall have my servants treat that with the recent shipment of Byzantine oils that came in last week." Helen left off admiring herself in the reflecting pool and straightened her skirts, showing just enough of a well-turned ankle to leave something to the imagination of admiring young man but not enough to be scolded for scandalous behavior by her maid-servants. She moved towards the entry way off the garden and into the palace proper when her breath caught in her throat and she her harsh breathing, a scramble on the far wall across for where she stood, the gasp as a blade pierced heavy leather armor and flesh, and then a thud, a curse muffled by the crash of marble and stone bricks.

"Who is there?" Helen demanded, wishing at the last minute that she had remembered to attach her small silver knife with the jeweled hilt that had been a pre-nuptial wedding present from her future father-in-law King Agamemnon. She realized, too late, that she had left it lying on her end table next to the vase of day lilies and hyacinths watered and carried for by her body servants. Crossing the inlaid mosaic tiles, heedless of the plants she crushed beneath her slippered feet. Helen moved forward, keeping her palm raised, hoping the intruders would think she held a knife in her hand.

**

Paris thought him self a perfect fool for agreeing to drink with the three men who first stole his best goat, panicked the flock of ship, and laughed at him when he feel into the water trough meant for the horses of the royal stables. His lank blond hair hung over his in soaked ringlets, his clothes clung to his lithe figure, and to make matters worse, the hurt look in his father's eyes, when told of his son's slacking negligence s somehow that hurt worse than the blows of fists and the knife blade that grazed his ribs. Paris, could bear up under everything else that had happened this afternoon, except disapproval of his father. If those soldiers really were from Troy, Paris thought to himself, what do they want with me. It's more than their livers' are worth to be caught in the heart of the Greek city-states. Peasant or no, I do a thing about a thing or two, and this is no time to be stealing livestock from his Highness King Nestor." Paris realized that he was talking to himself but didn't care. He shifted around on the balls of his feet. He liked being a shepherd, but they did not make for great conversationalists even at the best of times.

****

"I know someone is there, come forward if you have the courage," Helen demanded, her hand shaking and she allowed it to drop to her side. "Or must your mischief be conducted in the dark?"

"Hardly in the dark, my lady," Paris replied, glancing down at his disheveled appearance, "Forgive the abrupt entrance but circumstances have forced me to take a more cautious route." Paris took a look at her, the wheat blond hair cascading down her back, the blue eyes that pierced through fabric and flesh and saw right to his soul. Paris had never seen any women so beautiful and for a moment his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he was unable to get any words out.

Helen him over and was about to dismiss him as a mere servant, the damp hair, leather clothes and sandaled feet and was about to call for the guards, her mouth was open, the words on her lips when the motion was halted by a pair of salty lips pressed against hers, tasting of mint julep. Helen was of two minds about what to do about the sheer impertinence of young peasants these days. She was royalty and engaged to be married, but it was nice to be admired, and she had to admit if one overlooked the clothes and the dirt, and the look of instinctive fight or flee in blue eyes the color of the ocean in the winter, he was certainly good to look at. 

"My lady," Paris said when he recovered use of his tongue. "I shall be honored to tell you my story if you could but tell me where we are."

"The House of the Double Axes, the Palace of King Nestor." Helen obliged him. "On the eve of my wedding."

"Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude." Paris turned and was about to leave again by climbing the ivy-choked wall when he heard Helen call out. "Wait! Don't go."

"I do like tales," Helen smiled, enjoying the game. Here was one who admired her simply for herself not for herself as a princess of the realm, or her looks, or her eligibility as a wife, or her political connections, but herself. It was a frightening and a heady sensation. One she had never felt before and it she found it enjoyable. 

Helen walked over to sit on a marble bench near a bank of trellis roses in full bloom. She arched one delicate eyebrow and invited him to sit beside her, patting the space with a slim-fingered hand. Paris looked at her than at the bench. He chose to sit down on the floor of the garden..

"Is marriage to this man hateful to you?" Paris blurted out, not realizing what he was asking, but wanting her answer as badly as he ever wanted anything in his life.

"It is my duty," she replied.

"Is that all?"

"It is enough," she said.

"What would you say to a proposition?"

"Bold, but highly improper. I am…"

"Hush, I hear someone approaching. Paris twisted to his feet and placed a finger over her mouth.

Tense moments later, he moved away. "They are gone. I am a disinherited prince of Troy, and I wish to reclaim my birthright. Come with me."

"You wish me to go to our enemies? It is all so very strange."

"They will love you, as I do," Paris replied, embracing her again, not realizing that he hand his hand in a pocket and that he was rubbing the golden apple.

"I have a solution to our dilemma. We shall elope!"

"Yes, then I shall go and gather money and clothing for our departure. Wait for me by the lilacs at the base of this wall. She sighed. "You have no idea how happy this has made me," Helen whispered, kissing him on the lips with the fire of adventure in her blue eyes.

" I shall wait."

****

**__**

Scene 5 

"Prince Menealeaus! Where is he? I must speak with him. It is urgent" the chief steward gasped, running, his breath burning in his lungs.

"He is here," Ajax yelled, bolting from his chair at the banquet table and leading the exhausted steward up to the high table. "Now, man, what is so urgent that you had to nearly kill yourself bringing it to us?"

The steward gasped for breath, the throb of his pulse beating double time. "My lord, it is with great sorrow that I bring you this. Please spare, this unworthy servant's life."

Ajax swatted the man on the back, and the steward nearly fainted. With a grin, Ajax snagged a pitcher of water and poured it down the man's throat. "Now, tell us."

"My lady, Helen has run away with a spy from Troy" the man rattled out all in one breath.

"Is this true?" Ajax demanded.

"I wish it were not, my lord," the steward replied. "But I saw with my own eyes. They were caught in a most compromising position in the royal herb garden. I overheard them making plans to elope while I was overseeing the kitchen servants to gather herbs for the soup."

Prince Menelaus "How dare she! How dare our enemies sneak into our towns, our palaces, and take what is mine! They must pay for this sheer arrogance! Pay dearly!"

__

"I think he's about to have a fit," Ortho remarked, moving over to sit beside Methos when no one was looking. "And here I thought this would be a dull social affair. He shrugged. "Shows what I know."

"You grub," Methos snarled, grabbing the shorter man by the collar of his tunic, "Why didn't you tell me you've been married before, you could have warned that the bride to be would try something like this."

"Like what? Running out on her husband-to-be?" Ortho whispered, "Let loose of the threads, you're choking me."

Methos loosed his grip on Ortho's collar and subsided back into his chair. "It's not the battle I wanted. This has nothing to do with me, and I owe no one here any favors."

"What's the matter with you? Ortho spluttered. "It's a battle. Ignoring the silently fuming Methos he turned to his table mate, Ajax. "How far is it to Troy?"

"No one would call it short. A matter of several seasons on the open ocean, perhaps more, and then a long overland march," Ajax said. "It could be done, but it would need many men of both horse and on foot."

"Not to mention the cooperation of the other rulers," Ortho added. "If you'd ask me, which no one did, they are just looking for an excuse."

"This means war!" Meneleaus shouted, pumping his fist in the air, ignoring the whispered cautions of the assembled guests. 

Men rose and tried it seemed either to encourage the young man in his fevered cry for open warfare, while an older man, whose black hair was shot through with gray streaks, giving a salt-and-pepper look stood up and, banging a spoon against his glass, demanded order, and announced. "I advise caution, gentlemen. True, what this young pup from Troy has done merits harsh and instant retribution. But declaring open warfare is foolhardy."

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Menelaus demanded, rounding on the older man.

"We send an envoy, with demands for the safe return of Princess Helen and adequate recompense for the trouble, perhaps a tribute in gold and jewels."

"Do you honestly believe they will honor such a request?" Methos asked, interested in spite of him self.

"It's no secret that Trojan corsairs have dared to raid, ransack and take our own Greek maidens and youths captive, to be used as slaves," Agamemnon remarked.

"Our enemies could argue the same thing, and it would amount to about the same thing, not much," Nestor replied.

"Then, we are committed?" Meneleaus demanded of the room in general, his eyes were too bright and his brown hair stood out in bristles like the spines of a porcupine.

"I have your vow of that you will support me in this endeavor, my brother," 

"I shall, that I vow, and let the gods be my witness," Agamemnon stated, rising to his feet and clasping his brother's forearm.

Scene 6 _Sailing to Troy_

__

Months afterward

Methos cursed the inefficiency of three separate fleets under the command of three very different commanders,. "Damn, stiff-necked, arrogant bastards,' he muttered under his breath, unaware of the amused and look in Ortho's eyes as he watched him pace up and down the port side of the ship the carried the bulk of the ground troops. Prince Meneleaus was in command since it his wife that had been kidnapped by the Trojans, but King Agammenon was in overall command. Which worked fine on paper, and the documents that all the rulers had signed were as legally binding as anything on this side of the Aegean, but it was far different trying to get the assorted horses, weapons, soldiers, armor loaded onto the ships. They ocean was not a forgiving mistress as Methos had cause to recall, thinking back to the time he had crossed over from east of the Aegean on the "Osprey," a Phoenician craft, the he had since learned made excellent trading partners, but they were a superstitious lot, given to sacrificing otherwise excellent and valuable gold and silver ornaments to the various land, sea, and earth gods to indulge favors for good sailing weather, favorable times to plant, to when to have children. Methos found it all highly amusing and rather worthless, while he had to admit he couldn't exactly find an adequate explanation for these 'gods', existence; what it all boiled down to, was that the only thing he really believed in was himself, and Ares, if he was still around and interested in him, could take a flying leap off his war chariot.

Methos allowed a small smile to slip out, a narrowing of his thin narrow lips, but it did not last very long. "Shouldn't have eaten all that rich food at the banquet," he chided himself, "You'd think being Immortal would give me advantages over being sea-sick. This is absurd, it's all a case of mind over matter."

The ship hit a nasty patch of water and he lost his grip on the railing and sent rolling into a stack of barrel containing fish oil used to coat the sails. Methos let out a groan and clenched his teeth together, cursing when he bet through his tongue. A passing sailor gave him a pitying look, and chuckled. "Don't worry, mate," he added. "Takes landlubbers a good mite to get ther sea-legs. Ye'll be comin along in no time"

****

Methos glared at the sailor, too dumb to realize that the Immortal did not appreciate being made the butt of a crude joke, and if he felt better would have taken the opportunity presented and slammed his fist into the sailor's gap-toothed mouth. As it was, Methos was unable to rise to his knees and take a half-hearted swing before he feel back onto the dock, moaning. Looking over the railing at the rushing green water of the ocean below, convinced him that when the sailors brought around the beef stew, he would refuse on account of his queasy stomach. "Dam sight, unfair this is. Must be punishment for leading a wretched life."

"Hah!" Ortho laughed, coming up with a wooden bowl of beef stew. "Have some of this, the cook insists that you do. Although, I would rather eat my boot leather, it's at least salty."

"I could not keep anything down," Methos snapped. "Take it away."

"Let's go below, some of the men have started up a dice game and I think it would take your mind off the ocean."

"Dice game?"

"Yes, we might make a killing depending on the fall of dice"

"Lead the way."

****

__

A month later

At the Straits of Scylla and Charbydis

Sandy cliffs rose in into the sky in a jagged line from where the ships nosed their way into the narrow strait. The sun, just crossing the horizon painted the cliffs a rosy pink to contrast with the brown, red, and orange of the rocks. Methos, taking his turn at the oars, paused and shaded his eyes with his right hand, wondering if the light and fatigue were playing tricks on his eyes. He could have sworn that he had seen a darker, blacker patch move. 

"Did you see something move up there?" Methos asked, tugging on the sleeve of the man before him.

Whatever response the sailor would have made was lost as the crew-man standing in the crow's nest called out a high-pitched warning. "Beware! Danger to starboard! To Arms!"

The black spot grew steadily larger, emerging into the sunlight as a gigantic body of a monstrous octopus., it's pulsating sucker pads opening and closing, its beak scenting the blood of living men aboard the three flagships and their attendant smaller vessels.

The creature, scenting the mingled scents of human blood, sweat and fear, sent its tentacles out in random directions, trying to make contact. It wrapped its oozing body around the mast, instantly snapping it in two.

The captain, standing on the helm with a white-knuckled grip on the helm, shouted hoarse commands over the wind, shouts and confusion. The crew, responding to his authority, shook off their fear and took up their swords and bows, firing the creature's eye, and hacking at its tentacles.

Methos, feeling the tension build up inside him, felt clear headed- he stood up, his legs wobbling for a moment before his mind ordered them to obey. He shook his head, sweat making his dark hair hang limply over his eyes. He brushed it aside with the back of his free hand, the left holding onto the ship's railing while he gathered his balance. The nausea in his stomach faded, replaced with the adrenaline rush of action and battle. Methos thought for an instant to look for Ortho and found him in the knot of sailors attacking the sea-monster. Methos, yanked his sword from the sheath he wore strapped to his back and ran forward, teeth bared in a fierce rictus smile. He arced a high blow midway on the tentacle, backing up when a black oozing goo seeped from the wound. Hacking away at the others within reach, spinning and darting away to avoid being hammered by a return blow. Time passed but it ceased to have meaning while spun and struck, blood and sweat pouring from off his body, the front of his tunic wringing wet, a damp patches spreading across it.

A booming sound like thunder in a clear sky made Methos look towards the aft section where the sailors had regrouped, and he saw Ortho standing beside him, holding a wooden cup of water. Without a word, Methos accepted it and drank it down, when the cup fell from his hands, and the breath rattled in his lungs. He gasped, it felt as someone had dropped an anvil on his chest; it hurt to breath. It hurt to move. Irritably, he shoved the weight aside but there was nothing there but air.

Then he lost focus, and as if from a remote distance he heard Ortho calling him, but it was hard enough to concentrate on breathing to pay attention, and the last thing he recalled before losing consciousness was: "Do not do this to me, you son of bitch."

****

__

****

Afterwards

"There is nothing you can do." Ajax remarked, leaning over Methos' prone body.

"No! Ortho shouted, dry-washing his hands. "You have healers onboard, there must be something they can do." "He has lost too much blood, I'm surprised he has lasted this long. I would have expected to have died before sunset."

"Can we not move him below?"

"I am no healer, but I have been on enough battlefields to know a dead man when I see one, moving him would only make his death quicker. You are his friend?"

****

"Yes," Ortho whispered.

"Then as his friend, the best thing you can do for him, is stay with him until he dies, the fates were not kind today, we lost many good men." 

"Wait! Ortho shouted, "Ajax!"

****

**

Methos heard their voices from a great distance, as if he stood on a distant hillside and they on the opposite side and shouted to make themselves heard over the roaring of a storm, the rain coming down. Methos thought they were discussing him, and a part of him wanted to respond, if only to hear the sound of his own voice, because inside his head there was silence. It was difficult to concentrate, his bones ached. He struggled to move his limbs, and the fingers of his right hand twitched, loosing his grip on his sword hilt. It dropped to the deck with a ringing crash. At that instant the tingling sensation spread to his arms, legs, and torso, his head hurt like he'd been drinking ale for a month without stopping. Methos snarled but it came out a choking rasp. The tingling grew worse, and it grew into a surge of pain like being hit with lightning. His entire spasmed with the pain, twisting and jerking, and his concentration fled. Time passed but Methos no longer cared, the pain was his entire existence, blue flickering flashes setting of sparks all over his body.

****

**

__

Afterwards

When the pain subsided Methos sat up, gasping for air, his lungs burning. He was thirsty, Ortho, who had knelt by his side throughout the entire ordeal, held a cup to his Methos cracked lips.

"By the Gods, I have never anything like that," Ortho whispered.

"You must be cursed by the gods," Ajax said, shoving his way through the decked littered with the bodies of dead soldiers. "The creature is gone, driven off or injured. It hardly matters now."

"What happened?" Methos muttered, rubbing his temples where a lingering head ache refused to go away.

"You tell me. By all rights, you should be dead, but here you are," Ajax grinned.

"Maybe you have special talent or armor given you by the gods, after all. Like our friend, Achilles."

"Maybe I do," Methos nodded, then ordered Ortho to take him below decks back to his hammock.

__

A fortnight later At Aulis harbor

Docked on land again the commanders ordered supplies unloaded to honor the gods for granting them safe passage through the Pillars of Herkales and allowing to reach a sheltered harbor without any loss of life or property. 

****

**

Agamemnon, accompanied by Meneleaus, Ajax and Achilles, led the way towards where the blue and white striped tents of the nobility had been pitched, the fabric billowing and collapsing at the mercy of the unrelenting wind. They all had cloth masks wrapped over their mouths to keep out the grit and dust in the air. It had been agreed that this erratic weather in the middle of summer was unnatural and after a lengthy wait and much heated argument they had agreed to consult the army seer that accompanied the troops, Colchas. Agamemnon shouted through the entrance. "Come out, old seer, no one will harm you."

"My Lord," Colchas replied, wrapping his robes and his dignity around him self as he staggered out of the tent, holding onto the center pole with one hand, the other using his cane to keep his balance. "You summoned me?"

"Indeed. Read the signs for me, tell me the outcome of this venture. 

"At the very least, tell me why the gods have seen fit to curse us with this foul wind," Ajax snapped.

Colchas eyes glazed over until the whites showed, and went deep into the trance that allowed him to see past his immediate surroundings, to look into the mist of what ifs and what may yet come to pass. When he recovered, he looked directly into the younger man's eyes. "My lord, you will not be pleased with my answer."

"Tell me," Agamemnon ordered, teeth gritted.

"You will not leave this place either by sea or by land, the wind will come again in greater measure, men will go mad with hunger and fear unless."" Colchas whispered.

"Unless what?" Achilles interrupted, "Spit it out, man!"

Colchas sighed. "Unless, our king offers his most beautiful daughter as a sacrifice to the goddess Artemis. I am unclear on this matter, but he has managed to anger the goddess of the Hunt, and until she is appeased, the wind of ill fortune will destroy us all."

***

Methos mingled with the crowd unloading crates of the sweet Greek white wine, figuring that he would at least get some reward at the end. Methos waved to Ortho when he caught sight of him standing on the off ramp of a nearby vessel.

***

They joined a group of sailors who had opened a cask of white wine and were tossing from one to the other around a bonfire, built from the driftwood gathered on the beach. They waved and made room for the two men to join them in the circle. He spent hours in pleasant company, laughing, sharing drinks of the spiced wine and listening to the stories told my the sea-going men.

"What is happening over there?" Methos asked Ortho, pointing towards where men, had removed their shirts and were constructing a wooden platform held together by iron bands.

"Pay it no mind. It is none of our concern."

****

"Call it curiosity," Methos shrugged, as he stood up and stretched and strode towards the platform, shoving aside people when the got in his way, his black cape fluttering around his shoulders like the wings of carrion crows.

"Don't go," Ortho whispered, clutching at Mythos's sleeve**. **

****

With a heavy tread that left deep grooves in the sand, Agamemnon, nearly tore the tent down when he yanked on the entrance and shoved aside the women who looked after his daughter and the other women who accompanied the army. 

***

__

Outside

Methos had never had any tender feelings where children were concerned, but this innocent girl's frightened gazed pierced through the layers of his emotional armor and made him realize what a terrible fate awaited her. He waited until she was handed over to the executioner in a black cloak and mask, an dagger in one hand. 

The girl's hair was black and her eyes were blue of the evening sky. She couldn't have been older than eleven or ten winters old. She wore a light cotton shift that she wore to sleep and the wind was cold, she shivered. Her head dropped and she store at her bare feet as if nothing else in the world existed. Methos snarled, and muttered a curse under his breath. Someone, some way he would be the one to rescue this girl and bring live to this melting blue eyes. He fumed with impatience, waiting for the right instant in which to act' vowing that when the axe descended, he would snatch the girl right out for under their watching eyes. 

The executioner reached down and pulled the black tangle mass of hair away from her neck. Then, with a great show of effort and limbering of muscles, he bent down and levered the dagger to cut the girl's throat. Methos choose that moment to spring up toward the top of the platform, grabbed the girl and leaped for the opposite side, ignoring the mingled shouts of shock and anger, and ran for where he had pitched his tent with Ortho. If they came after with vengeance on their minds, so be it.

***

****

Scene 8

Agamemnon marched across the beach, his heavy strides made him look as if were wading through water instead of sand. The glare in his eyes would have melted butter, it was so fierce. Methos stared him down, refusing to let anyone, even a king intimidate him. Methos detected a small grimace on the thick lips, the puckered scar deepening the lines around the mouth.

"Something wrong, my Lord?" Methos said, holding a trembling Ipgenia by one hand, his free hand held the dagger that would have been used to cut her throat.

"More than I would like, sir," Agamemnon replied, his hand on the hilt of his drawn sword. He nodded towards his companions, and fellow rulers, "Bring his companion here."

****

"Spare her life," Methos whispered, an edge to his vice.

"It has gone past that."

****

They obeyed with due speed, dragging a confused and angry Ortho between him, holding onto him by his elbows. 

****

"Thus, I take my revenge," Agamemnon replied, thrusting the blade directly into Ortho's stomach, watching as the blood dripped from the gaping hole in the short man's middle. Ortho's eyes widened with the pain and the shock.

"Remember me." Ortho whispered, the light leaving his brown eyes.

"I will," Methos promised, the blood of his friend coating the bottom of his boots, as the body sagged into his arms, Methos carefully lowered into the sand.

"How dare you!" Methos screamed, whirling to confront Ortho's murderer. "You had no right to kill my friend."

"On the contrary, I had every right. I am his king. His life and, should I choose, his death, belongs to me." Agamemnon stated, staring Methos' directly in the eyes, the puckered scar even more pronounced than before. 

"The Goddess of the Hunt required a sacrifice before we would be allowed to leave this harbor, does it matter whose blood was spilled," Achilles.

"Hell! Yes, it matters!" Methos swore. "Why?" 

"It was an object lesson. For you, not for your friend. I have had you under observation these past few seasons, and one thing has become clear, for those with eyes to see. You think far too highly for yourself. You are arrogant, cold, haughty to those you consider your inferiors." The man was about as tall as Methos, and faced him at eye level, his shoulders were broadening, and the light of the setting sun made his appear to be all planes and angles, his blue eyes were icy with contempt.

"Which is anyone other than yourself and those in your circle of confidence," Meneleaus interrupted.

"We are ahead of schedule. We are winning the great Game, and all the glory will go to us when we beat the Trojans back to their sea wall. Then we will sack and burn their city. I do hope that does not conflict with your loyalty to your friend,." Agamemnon said.

"I will see to it, that he has a proper burial," Menelaus offered, gesturing to the soldiers to pick up the dead man and wrap him in white cloth, and take him away to prepare for burial.

"I will not forget or forgive this, my Lord," Methos whispered, whirling on his heel and marching off along the sand to a sheltered cove near the headland where he could be alone to gather his thoughts and plan his next move. 

****

****

Conclusion

__

The wind and rain that had trapped them on this miserable shore left suddenly and without warning, leaving the beach scraped clean of debris and trash. Methos took of his black cloak and wrapped it around the girl's trembling shoulders. She sighed and coiled up like a rabbit in it's den and fell asleep. He cursed himself for a fool, "What I am supposed to do with her? It is obvious that she cannot return to her family. I could take her with me. I owe nothing to anybody here, now that Ortho is dead.' He toyed with the idea of taking the girl with him, he could use her as a servant, and made she grew older.

At that instant the hairs on the back of his neck itched, and he took a quick glance around the sheltered cove, wondering why his senses told him danger was near but he was unable to see any sign of it.

"Hello, Methos," a baritone voice greeted.

__

Methos spun around, avoiding stepping on the sleeping girl. 'I know that voice, Ares/. If you think I will agree to any bargain with you again," Methos shouted.

"Do you believe in gods?" Ares, not all angry that Methos recognized him or remembered the circumstances of their previous encounter.

"No." Methos shook his head. "Oh, I have witnessed impressive manifestations of supernatural phenomena, but that is all its."

"What do you believe in?"

"This," Methos replied, scooping up a handful of sand. "Earth, Air, Fire, Water, my self. What I can see and feel, touch and smell,"

"Are you not a bit young to be so cynical?" Ares mocked. "That is a remarkably refreshing attitude, if extremely arrogant."

"So."

"So, I've come to discuss the terms of our deal." Ares snapped. "I am god, whether you acknowledge that fact or not, and your life is mine to do with as I please."

"You would do better with that king down the beach," Methos interrupted.

"Perhaps, but others have already taken an interest in him. Far be it for to fight my siblings of Mt., Olympus, over particular mortals to support in this tangled mess."

"It wasn't you who cursed with this deluge of bad luck?" Methos said.

"I thought you didn't believe in luck?" It's an intangible thing," Ares grinned. What about destiny?"

"I make my own destiny."

"Well, if that's the case, you are on your own," Ares snapped. And we will see just how well you do without my support." Ares shouted vanishing as suddenly as he had appeared.

****

TBC in chapter 3 "Endless Waltz"

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	3. Endless Waltz

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Disclaimer: **Disclaimer: **Hercules: the Legendary Journeys and all related characters, events, and concepts are the property of Renaissance Pictures, MCA Studios, and their related creators and producers; they do not belong to me, and not a dime is made off of this. Only borrowed for entertainment purposes. 

Highlander: the Series belongs to Rysher Television, Panzer/Davis Productions. Methos and Cassandra have been almost meeting since the Bronze Age, so this an attempt to expand upon that.

****

Note: Picks up shortly after where "_Vicious Circles"_ left off.

References to events and characters from Greek Mythology, esp. from Homer's Iliad.

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**Endless Waltz" by Karen**

_Prologue _

At the gates of Troy

Dust clogged the air whirling around in a mingle cloud of sand and grit. The wind coming in from the south turned into a steady stream blowing directly into the rider's faces. 

'If it was this bad on horseback,' Methos thought, the hem of his cloak wrapped over his mouth; 'then it must be sheer torment to the common soldier forced to wear out their own boot leather on this gods-cursed marathon overland march.' 

Meanwhile, the fleet had been left under the command of seasoned veteran. Sailors were left to guard the ships upon their return. The ships were docked in a sheltered cove a fortnight's travel back near the isle of Tenedos. Methos did not envy them. He felt nothing except for the biting dust, the wind, and the movement of the horse beneath him. The bay gelding snorted and chomped on the bit when he suddenly drew the reins up tight and gathered into a ball in his fist. The rider directly ahead of him had come to abrupt halt, and as he opened his mouth to grumbled about the sudden halt, he all but swallowed his tongue when he looked up and saw the reason the column had been ordered to halt. They had arrived.

****

The city and its legendary golden walls sprawled atop an earthen embankment. From the Greek's vantage point coming down from the top of the foothills afforded them an excellent view.

The walls were not made of gold as the rumors and market gossip had led them to believe, but they were massive. The dying light of the setting sun made the walls gleam a buttery gold. Banners of purple and yellow fluttered in the wind, and soldiers lined the walls dressed in conical helmets and glittering armor. 

__

"A hard nut to crack, and no mistake about that," Odysseus remarked, shaking his head. "We knew that," he added over his shoulder, noting the fixed gazes of the others assigned to his column. "Relax. It is not as if we expected to take the miserable Trojans as we did the outlying provinces in one fell swoop." 

Ajax, his eyes rolling back in his head until the whites showed, grinned, his expression fixed. He turned to the king from Ithaca and let that statement sink in, once it had, he laughed, the sound coming from deep in his barrel chest. "Hah! Hah! You said it, man! We shall fight harder, longer, we mighty men from across the Aegean, and let no one man among the enemy say otherwise!" To glory!" 

Ajax spurred his horse on with his heels and urged the animal down the trail, his green dyed crest on his helmet flying out in the wake of his passing.

"Is he always like this?" Methos muttered under his breath, leaning to his open side and spitting on the ground, the foul taste in his mouth.

Believing that no one had overheard his remark, Methos was startled when Achilles leaned towards him, nearly falling out of his high saddle. "We make allowances for Ajax, because we could not rein him otherwise."

"Make no mistake this will be hard fought battle, one that will be remembered and for the poets to sing centuries after we have all gone to dust," Menelaus said.

"I swear, you are all glory-crazed madmen. It is a good thing your skulls are all made of bone. I like a battle campaign as much as the next warrior, but this isn't one that can be won with a headlong reckless charge, trumpets blaring and banners streaming." Methos replied.

"And what would you know of organizing and implementing a battle campaign, young man?" Agamemnon asked, his dark eyes slits underneath his helmet. "Give us some credit for having more than bone in our hands. This campaign has been carefully planned, we certainly were given enough time as it by the gods of Olympus while were forced to endure the pinch of hunger, and the torment of thirst at Aulis. Do not try my patience."

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Scene 2

Once the wagon trains loaded down with the supplies, weapons, and baggage caught up the vanguard, bonfires were set to burn. The long plain that the Trojans used to plan their grain and and other staples to provide food for their growing population blazed with light as if seeking to outshine the stars in the night sky.

The fields were deserted, the crops left untended. A city of tents spread over the plain, their flap billowing in the wind like the wings of birds. No tent was to be out of sight and call of each other, even the largest pavilions for the commanders.

***

__

Inside the pavilion

****

"It will be the height of arrogance to assume that our enemies have not had time and the resources to prepare for our arrival. We shall have to make our strategies accordingly.' Odysseus remarked, studying the a map of the plains and out defenses of the city from the map lying spread on the wood n folding table in front of him. 

"As you can see, the city is constructed with a commanding view of the headland, and its earthen embankments afford it protection from a sea-based attack. 

"These Trojans are famous for the skills on horse back and ," Menelaus interrupted. "What if they attempt a sortie?"

"They would have to open the gates to allow a column of men on horseback to ride down towards the plain to have any hope of sortie to do the most damage." Agamemnon said.

"From what our spies have been able to tells us their skill on horseback is formidable, but they have a peculiar conceit, they always use two pair of matched horses while driving a chariot." Odysseus remarked.

"We knew laying down a protracted siege would be inevitable," Agamemnon said.

"Ajax is already overseeing the raising of the siege engines and will distritubute the cross-bows and swords to the soldiers."

**__**

"This has gone far beyond redressing an old wound to wounded pride,"

"If not for Helen's sake…." Menelaus blinked and wiped the grit of travel and fatigue from his with the back of his hand.

"Be honest with yourself, man, Helen was merely the excuse we used for this war." Odysseus said.

"As much as I hate to admit, my friend, you have the right of it, Meneleaus muttered. "Do, you? No, I have no right to ask. But do you think they have killed her?"

"I can not say, her abductor may have kept her alive long enough to offer up as a trophy of war, or she may have been killed already. Perhaps she was not meant long for this world." Odysseus remarked.

"Let us hope the gods are more generous with our enterprises."

**__**

"Protracted sieges are successful usually by dint of either waiting out the opponent or starving them out. We have enough in the way of food supplies, medicines and wherewithal to hold out several months."

"Do you think it will take that long?" Menelaus asked.

"You've seen their defenses." Agamemnon remarked, rolling up the map and stuffing back into the wooden chest set beside his cot. "Best weather for battle is a downpour. Rain dampens bows and ruins powder. War is so much nicer when arrows fall short of their mark and cannons will not fire. My old drill sergeant taught me that."

**__**

***

**__**

Scene 3 Inside the palace walls 

Meanwhile

The council chamber had been stripped of layers of gauze and silk drapes, the wooden panels of carved oak and ash lining the walls that for as long as anyone living or dead with the walls of Troy could recall had depicted the long lineage of King Priam's family, were soot-stained and peeling. Servants, whose task it was to dust, burnish and maintain the carvings and the decorations were either dead or sent had been dispatched on more urgent tasks. 

The people of the city had been issued warnings of the way the invading Greek army had first been sighted coming around the headland island of Tenedos, and now months later, were either fleeing into the highlands to the north or hiding behind thick, barred doors of their homes, and subjected to a curfew for the first time in recent memory. 

****

"Bring my eldest son to me, " King Priam ordered.

***

"Hector," Priam greeted.

"These Greeks, what do you know of them?" Priam inquired, leaning back in his golden thrown, rubbing his temples were the golden circlet pinched his forehead.

"I doubt not this shall try our mettle. Our city has subjected to other invasions, and we have faced all enemies down., they have to come beat down the walls, take and ravish our women, and steal our treasures, and our horses. Yet, who has remained to shout the victory cry. We remember, we remain," Hector reassured his father and his king.

"You lighten my heart even as it seems to me that we our nearing our end. Our house goes back many generations. It seems I shall be the last. Priam

"Never fear, Sire! Hector hastened to reassure his father, "If this be the last days of Troy, we shall make them ones to remember! Bards will sing of our deeds down through the centuries. We will live again long after we are all dust."

"I wish I had your optimism because I can not see it. I feel blind."

"As well you should, Your Majesty." Cassandra shoved aside the double doors opening onto the audience chamber. She ignored the shocked cries of herald who stood at attention beside the urns and amphorae used to hold rush lights. 

"Cassandra, you are not welcome here. Why are you not attending to your duties in the temple to Apollo?" Priam snapped.

"I shall return there hence, but I came to deliver a warning." Cassandra replied, tossing her mane of black hair over her shoulder, the mass of it had come loose from the ribbon and pins she used to bind it up.

"Let her speak, Father," Hector nervously laughed. "It will do no harm to at least let her have her say."

"Very well," Priam relented. 

"I could not help but overhear your last remarks, Sire. It would seem that you also foresee the time coming when the city shall burn and our walls torn down."

"I mistake your gift of glimpsing the future and has no more art to it than peeping at keyholes," Priam laughed.

"Father, you know that is not true." Hector muttered under his breath.

Hecuba, sitting in her chair set beside her husband's throne, quietly working on her needlework, looked up at this and turned a stern glance on her eldest son and husband. "Time will come when we all say, why did not listen when we had the chance? We will curse and wail and tear our hair out by the roots. By then it will be too late."

"Now you tell are a fortune teller, Hecuba?" Priam asked, a catch in this throat.

Hector laughed, smacking his sides with his hands. "Why all this talk of gloom and doom? Battle is about to joined and I for one eagerly await it! Let our enemies do their worst! We shall outlast them, We have outlasted other forces arrayed against, and who is here to tell the tale!"

****

****

__ ****

Scene 4

The armies drew back on either side and in the space between Paris and Meneleaus faced each other.. Apparently, in the confusion of battle, someone with a cooler head had come to the sensible decision to let the two with the most to gain fight out it alone.

Paris struck first, hurtling a spear direct at his opponent's chest and Menelaus caught on his shield. Menelaus responded in kind, hurling his own spear, falling short of the mark. The only damage Paris took was a tear in his tunic, but did not wound him.

Menelaus cursed and drew his sword, but it broke. Undaunted and unarmed he leapt from his saddle and seized him by the crest of the man's helmet, and dragged him off his feet. He would have dragged him, but through the intervention of Aphrodite, who caused the strap to tear and come loose and Paris was gone.

**__**

Agamemnon looking on, could only shrug and with a sidelong glance at Odysseus, standing beside him. "So much for settling this through a contest of champions."

"Your brother is able warrior, but he has let his emotions get the better of him." Odysseus remarked. 

****

The battle wore on, the end always in doubt . The orderly lines of mounted soldiers, the phalanx of archers lined up in rows like they had been planted there, sending a hissing spray of arrows up towards the Trojan soldiers on the walls, and covering themselves with shields, when the Trojan archers responded in kind. 

Methos, tugged on the strap of his own helm and spurred his horse into the melee, the battle coming alive around him. He heard hoof beats, boots slogging through the muddied and bloodied dirt. The scrape of steel of steel on steel, like harsh music to his ears. 

**

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Elsewhere

Hector , standing on the walls, looked down at the chaos of battle, armored bodies moving across it like the tides of an ocean swept by storm. He rubbed his hands together as if they were chilled. With a loud baritone voice Hector ordered up a company of men, chariots and horses and ordered them saddled and ready. It was not by sheer chance that his people were famed for horse-breeding. It was not for him to stand aside and let others do his fighting. He must be in the forefront of any battle, yet having just come from a tearful meeting with his wife, Andromache, he realized what her anguish would be when he died.

**

On the battle field Hector was eager for the fight and as the gates opened Hector spurred his war chariot to greater speed, leaving the others to choke on the dust in his wake. His shining bronze helm was everywhere, mowing through the Greek ranks like a scythe through a wheat field and one Greek warrior after another fell beneath his bronze spear. When evening came, the battle for a time, ended, and found the Greeks pushed back almost to the line where their ships were docked.

***

****

Scene 5

She perched atop a barrel once used to store extra arrows and fletching for the Trojan archers, a woman whose auburn mane of hair was barely contained by her helmet, braced her self on a parapet and drew herself up to her full commanding height. The other defenders maintained their positions on Troy's hill fortified walls, but even so they could not keep from stealing glances at the queen of the Amazons. Queen Philomena and her tribe were allies of Troy and every year paid an annual tribute and visit to Troy. When the call had gone out to summon defenders to the city, she and her warriors had been the first to respond. 

"Son of Leto! Achilles! Greatest of Greek warriors! Where is your courage now? Drained in the bottom of clay cup of wine! Can your hear me! I know you can! Hah! If that is the best you can throw against us then we have little to fear!" 

"Making herself a target, but with good effect, if nothing else it will make Achilles think twice before he comes against us again. You could not pay me enough to stand there and shout insults at our foes," Hector said, leaning up against a wall of the parapets and glancing at the Amazon queen with admiration and a little fear.

"Coward! A dog fighting in the streets over the choicest bones has more wherewithal than thou does!" She raised her arms straight up to the sky as if daring them to shoot her down where she stood. Pausing a moment to catch her breath, the queen ranted on.

"Next time, when you face battle send the real men into to do the fighting, and not overgrown boys!"

"Should we get her down from there?" a archer asked Hector, who shook his head in reply. "Not just yet."

****

Scene 6a

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Elsewhere

Bitter. That was all that Achilles could say not even seeing the lees of the sour wine that filled the bottom of his clay cup. His tongue has lost any feel and sensitivity to be able to tell the difference between a good vintage and one that left something to be desired. His eyes were red and puffy, and crinkled around the edges. Achilles hair hung in mattered tangles around his face. He felt utterly disgusted with him self. Battle was as glorious and glittering as he had imagined it would be. His best friend Patrolcous had died, killed in the fighting by the Trojans' champion, Hector, and put to the indignity of being dragged around the walls of Troy while the assembled warriors and soldiers of his fellow Greeks could do nothing but stand by and watch. Achilles had felt such rage, such a driving, unthinking need to avenge his friend's death that all he saw for many hours afterward was a hazy red mist, the blood boiling his veins. It had all been leeched away. Achilles spent the time inside his tent alternately sleeping and drinking, then sleeping away the fuzziness of drink. Now there was nothing left to drink.

**__**

"Two different fates are carrying me on the road to death. If I stay here and fight…. There will be no homecoming, but my fame shall never die," Achilles whispered.

"The Wheel of turns and turns, and you fall from grace. And since by fate the strong are overthrown, weep ye all with me." Odysseus entering the tent, wrinkling his nose at the mingled odors of unwashed body, sweat and sour wine.

**__**

"Achilles! How goes it with you!" He greeted the younger man with a wide grin stretched across his lips and a rag tied over his mouth to block the worst of the stench. "Come now, man! 

"Get out!" Achilles snarled.

"I will not." Odysseus, snapped, and then knelt down in the dirt, his hands clenched into fists in the fabric of his robes. "Why do you crouch here in your tent like an cripple when there are battles to be fought and glory to be won?"

"Where is glory? When all I taste is ashes?" Achilles snarled. "My best friend, Patrolcous is dead.

"If you will not fight, we cannot allow that fabulous of yours to sit in its cedar chest gathering dust. 

"Damn it, Man! Forgive my bluntness! But it as if the death of Patrlocus has sapped every ounce of fighting spirit out of you! Do you want that to get back to our enemies!

Do you want Patroclous death to have been in vain?"

Achilles straightened and looked the ruler of Ithaca in the eyes for the first time since his friend died, and ember of his old fighting spirit returned. "Not in vain," he whispered.

"I do not know. Do what you will with the armor."

"Whom among is most deserving?" Odysseus asked, cocking his head to one side, thinking the matter through. "Diomedes or Ajax, I think.

"Do what you think best," Achilles replied, "You always do. I have not the art."

**__**

"The gods are fiercely angry with the Greeks because of this," Odysseus. "I thought you would like to know that in order to appease Olympus we have arranged a lull in the battle by allowing King Priam to ransom for the body of his son, Hector."

**__**

***

*

****

Scene 7 Encounter 

Methos took the opportunity offered by the commanders preoccupation of encouraging Achilles to come out of his tent and rejoin the fight, to slip and do a little reconnaissance of his own. In the confusion, he finally came upon an abandoned gate in the side of the walls facing towards the ocean, the faint echo of the surf pounding against the earthen hillside like the heartbeat of a giant. In a better mood and circumstances he would have wagered a large sum of money on which would take the city down faster, the Greeks army or the sea. He had brought a torch with him, and by its flickering light he realized he had stumbled across a servant's entrance. Feeling a bit reckless, Methos, he was in unique position. Go forward or go back and report his discovery. Looking back over his shoulder. "Why not" he muttered under his breath, 'If nothing else I can always say that I'm here on courier business if anyone questions my presence. 

****

****

Cassandra, the priestess of Apollo, knelt in front of the bronze tripod, her black hair sliding down her back like a silken cloak. He hair stirred in the wind that came through the open door. In her left hand she stoked the coals with an incense stick. Her free hand drummed a steady rhythm on the floor in time with the beating of her heart. 

Cassandra knew she needed to concentrate on the ritual even more than she usually did because she was a priestess of the Sun god, Apollo, and she should not allow herself to feel any resentment or bitterness due to the fact that god had turned his face away from her. It was difficult. Apollo had come down from Mt. Olympus on many occasions to express his admiration and love; making her feelgiddy and overwhelmed. 

Now, the men fought for their lives in this war, and everything Cassandra ate or drank tasted like ashes, the prayers to the gods went unanswered. It was as if the Gods had all gone deaf and blind.

"Why will they not believe? Why do they cast me aside? Apollo! It is Cassandra. I implore thee, heed my voice,! There was a time, a time not long past as we mortals reckon things, that wit and the talent granted to part the mists of time, and catch a glimpse of the what is and the what may be and see the future. Bah! True sight. It is still true, verily. A gift, a curse! But how wretched hast thou made me feel knowing that my future sight is still as sharp as a blade but it draws blood. None of my kin or my people will believe me!" Apollo! Answer me!"

She had warned King Priam about the impending doom she had seen; her waking hours and the time she spent in sleep were spent tossing and turning and cursed by visions of her beloved city of Troy in flames, the walls torn down, and everything she knew and loved destroyed. The gift she had taken as such a joyous gift, the gift of long sight, or prophecy, was now a curse. The worst thing about being able to see the future was knowing there was nothing one could do to affect the outcome. She could have resigned herself to that, it was the fact that no one believed her when she told them of her visions and her predictions of the future. "I can not endure this curse!" Cassandra hurled the incense stick and then the golden sun disk wildly where she absently watched it shatter into a hundreds of tiny pieces on the wall and sank to the ground once more.

****

****

"Granted, I know little of the customs of your people, but it seems to me that in time of war, people should be saving their gold trinkets and not breaking them against walls." Methos curled his lip and bent over to pick up a handful of golden shards, allowing them to trickle through his fingers like sand on ocean shore. A few of the sharper pieces cutting through his flesh, drawing blood. The small cuts instantly sealing over leaving tiny white scars. He dropped the shards and glanced around the small temple. 

"How dare you enter a sacred temple! Leave! Now!" Cassandra shouted, gasping, unable to get air into her lungs for a moment from sobbing.

****

"I was not trying. I was sent to deliver a message and I got turned around in here. If you could but direct me to the audience chamber…." He was aware that his mission was incomplete, and there was no telling what the grief-stricken Achilles would do if left to his own devices. They had both been charged to deliver the body of Prince Hector to his father King Priam for burial, but somehow Achilles managed to get turned around and Methos had found himself drawn to the temple.

__

"Why should I help you?" This world is filled with sorrow," Cassandra snapped.

"I may have come at a bad time." Methos backed up a few steps, feeling an odd but compelling urge to go nearer the woman, to grab her by the shoulders and shake the truth out of her, until the bones rattled. At the same time, he had an equally compelling urge to run away as fast as his feet would carry him.

__

It was at that instant, when she turned and showing him the lines of her profile to him, and finally completed the turn so she was staring right at him, and through him. Methos felt a tingling at the back of his neck, the fine black hairs bristling. In other circumstances he would have dismissed the sensation as nothing more than his instincts warning of danger, but this was different. If pressed give an answer why it felt that way.. Methos doubted he would have been able to give a coherent answer. In the back of his mind, he could have sworn he recognized the ivory skin, the huge dark eyes, like pools of inky blackness. It felt like bees had taken up residence in his brain. 

"I remember you," Cassandra muttered, memorizing the sharp bones of his face, the curled lip and the piercing dark eyes that took in everything around him without giving anything of the man behind that smooth mask. She knew something in that should jar loose a buried memory, of a time in the steppes; but it would not come clear.

"That is not possible." Methos shook his head, clearing it of the cobwebs.

__

"I remember, it so clouded, my memories. My dreaming and waking hours have become mingled together I do not what is less real, reality or my dreams."

"My lady," Methos tried, glancing around for the open door to discover if guards were posted nearby.

"A open plain, a campfire, a village of straw and mud huts. Do you remember?"

"No."

"Damn you!" Cassandra raged, nails digging into the flesh of her palms. "The raid, horses sweeping down, the raiding, the killing, the fires burning on the plain" She allowed her words to trail off and in the uncomfortable silence she drew a angular shape on her left cheek. "You had a blue tattoo painted here, I remember. You never asked me my name when I was your slave."

"What is your name?" Methos asked, puzzled.

"My name? Cassandra." What do they call you?"

"Methos."

"Well, Methos, do you have any idea of how much I want to see you dead?"

"I am beginning to," Methos whispered. 

"I do not know why you have come here," Cassandra whispered. "But you had best leave, because if you do not, I will kill you myself."

"Now?" Methos admitted that he was curious how she would go about killing him for he saw no weapon, no poison; also a bit unsettled when he recognized the fragrance she used to scent her hair.

"No, not now, not like this. But I will find a way." Cassandra replied, once more turning her back on him.

"So be it." Methos left the temple and darted through shadows until he came to that back entrance he found to gain access to the palace, as silently as the shadows the concealed him.

*****

****

Scene 8

"Will he fight?" Agamemnon asked, when he caught sight of Odysseus marching back from the tent of Achilles.

"Doubtful," he replied. "We have earned a brief respite, a time to gather courage and strength for the next push but it will not last forever."

"What are our chances?" Menelaus asked.

"Again doubtful, "Odysseus replied. "The gods play with the fates of even their favored mortals like pieces on a chess board."

"Indeed," Agamemnon agreed.

"I have thought of a plan, by which we might yet emerge with a victory in this contest." Odysseus said.

"This plan of yours…" Agamemnon trailed off, and looked down at the mud on his boots, trying to follow the trail that older man had in mind.

You have heard of the Palladium?" Odysseus asked.

The statue of Athena the Trojans are famous for?" Yes, what of it?"  


"Why we make a wooden horse, they bring it inside the walls, but the horse interior will be hollow and inside will lay hidden a army of handpicked soldiers, and then the walls will fall." Odysseus concluded, wrapping his raw, chapped hands in the fabric of his tunic. "We send it as a peace offering to the Trojans and then pretend to strike camp as if were giving up and apparently set out for sea."

"It will be a ruse?" Menelaus asked.

"Yes."

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Scene 8b** _Aftermath_**

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The priest, Lacacon was the only hold out, the voice that warned the people, to anyone that would listen 'to beware of Greeks bearing gifts, and to his surprise his warnings were echoed by the priestess, Cassandra; but both were shouted down. The overall mood of the citizens, that this wooden horse was as a peace offering and the long war was at last over.

The Trojans dragged the huge wooden horse into the streets of the city and up to the temple of Athena and rejoiced in their good fortune and returned to their homes in peace as they had not been able to do for many years.

At midnight a cunningly hidden side panel in the wooden horse's flank opened and out poured an army of Greek warrior, fires ignited in the sleeping streets of the city. By the time the Trojans awoke and realized what was happening, Troy was burning.

Trojan defenders pulled on their armor, snatched up weapons, or anything they could lay hands in the initial surprise, but it was too late and too little, yet they fought on. They knew it would be an unequal battle, too many Trojans had already fallen and both sides were desperate and despite the tide of battle, turning like that of the ocean below the castle, the Greeks could not be beaten back anywhere, and when morning came what had been the proudest city in Asia was now a smoking shelled out ruin.

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Scene 9 Conclusion 

Methos & Cassandra on the way to Persia

Afterwards

  
"I knew you would return," Cassandra smiled, leading a heavily veiled smaller figure by the hand. A gust of wind coming in through broken windows like eyes in a skull, blow the hood away from the small figure's face. "Iphegenia, bring your hood up around your face."

"What is the girl doing here?" Methos asked, interested in spite of himself.

"You saved her from being offered up as a sacrifice to the capricious gods, were else would you expect her to be. Out there, "Cassandra gestured to the east and beyond the walls, as if her sight could travel distances and through brick and stone, and dirt walls. "Out there with the Greeks?"

"We are all exiles now." You are planning your escape from this burning city. "

"What do you want?" Methos demanded, folding his arms over his chest.

"Take us with you," Cassandra replied.

"Exile will come as a welcome chance after these last few years." Methos muttered under his breath.

"You say that now. You talk out of the side of your mouth. With one hand you give and with the other you take. Come the miles and years down the road to exile, and you will change your tune." Cassandra remarked.

"Is everyone here touched with madness and gut-wrench curse of foresight? Methos snarled. "I'll tell you something for free, I nauseating sick and tired of it!"

"Death will be no release." Cassandra breathed, her breaths coming in ragged, choked gasp, her face lined with soot and the tracks that tears made as they rolled down her face.

"I don't know it's been pretty good to me so far."

"How do you figure?" Cassandra asked.  


"I do not have to figure anything. I just know. I'm on very intimate terms with our friend, Death."

"Indeed," Cassandra remarked, arching on delicately plucked black eyebrow.

Methos laughed, a wry twisting of his thin lips. "Have you realized by now whom your trusting to get you out of this gutted shell of town, 'I am Death."


End file.
